


Hair

by leogrl19



Series: Seduction in Skyhold [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Desk Sex, F/F, ahhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1, in what will, most likely, be a series of accompanying standalones when the NEED strikes, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a chapter in HtADI (just without all the naughty bits), but I’ve *so* yearned for SEX between these two, I CAN’T EVEN—and then, acertainheight peer pressured. So, now, it’s a matter of pride. And guilt. So, she’ll write more sexy times. In fact, I’d like to take this opportunity to encourage you all: 
> 
> Do your part; screw an Antivan diplomat, today.

* * *

 

A drawn out sigh.

Josephine continued to detail her missive: yet another member of the Orlesian aristocracy had requested the Herald's _immediate_ presence at their latest fete—this particular request from a duchess inviting the woman to her summer estate in Val Chevin. As far as the Orlesians were concerned, elves capable of closing large rifts in the skies, were, very much in season….

The fact that most had never _seen_ a Dalish in person ( _Do tell her not to wear make-up. My guests and I wish to see those charming, little scribbles, they paint over their faces._ ), only increased such requests.

Another sigh. Longer than the last. 

The ambassador refused to set her quill down. She would not go so far, as to say, she ignored the spare occupant in the room—(certainly _not_ ; that would be _rude_ )—she simply, allowed her attentions to be placed, elsewhere, in the vain hope, the woman would be _sensible_. 

When the Inquisitor decided to drape herself across her desk, however, blowing a tight, stream of air between her lips, she set the instrument aside. “Why are you frowning?”

"It's your hair." Blue eyes peered up at her. And, there was yet another sigh. “It’s just a shame, is all."

Josephine touched the strands self-consciously, a frown turning her lips. "What is wrong with my hair?"

Copper brows bunched tightly. ”Do you ever let it down?"

“…On occasion. Usually before I retire for the night.”

“Well. That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it?” Josephine stared at her. “Why not let it free when you’re awake?”

“It, would too often, get in the way. With the tasks I preform, daily,” she gestured to a stack of documents. “Well. I am sure you can imagine why the need to constantly brush it aside, while writing correspondence, would prove burdensome.”

She shivered to think of it — honestly: nothing would ever get _done_. And, she was not so vain to believe the aesthetic benefits higher than those of a more practical origin.

“A shame.” Repeated; the Inquisitor ‘tsked’ to herself—the quill she used, _somehow_ , in her hands. “You can believe, if I had hair like yours, all,” she made wavy gestures with the instrument, “you couldn’t keep me from flaunting it, about.”

“Your hair is gorgeous.” Ah. “If, you do not mind me saying so, Your Worship.” The _woman_ was gorgeous, possessing an, almost belligerent beauty — one that did not wait for notice, but simply assaulted the senses. The alabaster of her skin; the turn of her jaw, the sharpness of her eyes; the vibrant markings lining her face—

But, her _hair_ … 

The fiery ringlets were her favorite feature — _wild_. Tumultuous. Like a thing that would not be tamed.

So suitably matched with its owner.

She watched the elf play with the irreverent curls splayed across her desk. "It's there, I suppose.” A shrug. “I find it easiest when I let it do as it wishes.”

Josephine smiled—and didn’t _that_ sound familiar? “I’m sure many women would love to know your secret.” Herself, included. Naturally, she pinned up her hair for all the practical reasons, but it was such a _pain_ to take care of. She had even wanted to cut it, for a time, but then her father would _pout_. “In fact, I have received several inquiries on just that.”

The Inquisitor scoffed. “Tell them, it's a vigorous process involving soap and water. Extraordinarily hush hush.” The quill was twirled between two fingers, the woman smirking up at her. “We Dalish are quite vigilant, when it comes to the care of our hair.” Josephine curbed another smile. “You should let it down."

“My hair?” A nod. “Why?”

“The real reason?” The ambassador nodded; the quill paused — and there was a moment, when the other’s gaze was so blatantly _deliberate_ , she had to fight the urge to squirm in her chair. “I want to run my fingers through it, while pressing you against a wall.”

Josephine closed her eyes. Denied the mental image of the woman doing _exactly_ ** _that_** …. Stopped herself from _shivering_. Conveyed a face of chastisement, instead. 

“You are still too blunt.”

Brin rose from the desk, turned in her direction. “Do you go for women?” _Maker_. What had she just— _sigh_. “Romantically, I mean. Am I your type?” A finger across her ear. “Too ‘elfy’?” Josephine frowned; the Inquisitor leaned forward. “I want to kiss you.”

And, it was _immediate_ — her eyes to the other’s lips, the Dalish markings extending to the fuller, puff of flesh, splitting it in two. 

She felt hers part. “Your Worship…”

Sudden. The woman abandoning her desk, to slip around its side. Guide her chair toward her. _Take_ both of its arms.

“I want to kiss you.” Again. A knee parted her thighs. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Her mouth fell—a single, _hitched_ breath. Caught in her throat.

And, that — _did not happen_. Words lied in wait on her tongue, ready, always, _exactly_ when she willed them. She entered rooms, with knowledge and knowing, quelling opposition with carefully deposited charm; a well-placed turn of phrase—the occasional damning secret. 

But, only as a last resort.

She arbitrated the powers of _Thedas_ ; and knew _exactly_ where she stood.

But, she did not _have_ that with the Dalish Inquisitor. She had **_nothing_**. And it _frustrated_ her to _no end_ , that _she_ was the one _constantly_ _caught off guard_.

That this woman was her _exception_.

She wants _leverage_. 

She wants…

Josephine pulled her forward, fingers _lost_ in rebellious curls — and it’s _glorious_ …the woman releasing the smallest sound of _shock_ , the moment she seized her lips.

And the **_heat_** , the _tension_ that always _was_ between them—

**_Exploded_**. _  
_

_And_ —

…Miraculous. It felt _miraculous_ she had resisted doing this, for so very _long_.

The Inquisitor swiftly regained herself — kissed back, forcefully, only to snatch her from her chair, slide impetuous hands to her waist; grip her hips with an almost painful **_ferocity_** — but, she has mastered this dance. The kiss was _hers_. She added her tongue, had _it_ say it _too_ …And there was a perverse streak of _vindication_ , from the indignant growl, rumbling, in the back of the other’s throat.

But, the conclusion of her accomplishment came far too _quickly_ —because, the very next moment, she’s backed against a wall.

Josephine leaned into the hard surface, listening to their discordant pants. 

She opened her eyes: 

That insufferable _smirk_. 

“Lady Montilyet…” condescension; and mischief; and _heat_ ; calloused fingers caught her chin. “Was that Antivan for ‘yes’?”

She’s taller — but it never feels that way with the other woman. Her personality; her _presence_ … The ambassador shivered. “What now?” She refused to give the satisfaction of embarrassment.

Blue orbs darkened—and it was as if seeing all the things the elf _wished_ to do, all at _once_. “Your hair…” her chin was released, those fingers snaking behind her head, loosening her braid, tugging at her bun, until its clips fell to the floor. “Creators,” _hot_ against her skin, “you don’t know how much I _need it_ …”

Heat flooded her body, an angry wave of _fresh_ ** _desire_** as her hair spilled past her shoulders.

_Oh_ ,

The look the Inquisitor gave her _now_ …

**_Destitute_**. Mouth parted with audible pants.

A glance away — before she _lost_ herself. The door to her office was closed, a slender, brass key in its lock. A rarity: her door was kept open for anyone who had need of her services, the only exceptions, being, required isolation to concentrate on a solution, momentarily, beyond her, or when she was entertaining influential guests. 

The other must have shut it when she entered.

An appreciative smile:

Had the woman planned this from the start?

Brin coursed fingers through her hair, bringing her forcefully back to the moment, as she _hummed_ her approval. She caught her hand. “…Did you lock the door?"

Surprise — before a smirk. The Inquisitor nodded.

Any nerves she felt were effectively offset by the twist of longing in her belly, her next statement fueled by its strength, alone. A hand to her chest. “Sit.”

The woman eyed her sharply, a look she'd never seen— 

_Hitch_.

The elf lifted her, flipping their positions—forcing her to her desk, _scattering_ missives and quills and ink vials—only, to snatch her forward. _Claim_ her lips.

She moaned, helplessly.

Because, it was just another _shift_ in their ever-ensuing struggle for control. Leaving her _breathless_ and _dizzy_ ….

The ambassador swallowed, when the other finally decided to back away, her mouth dry. “…Willful.” she panted against her lips, “To the very end…”

The Inquisitor smirked; pulled her in; kissed her _harder_ —

And, she _let_ her. 

Because: Her lips, 

her _lips_ — 

were.

_So_ —

Another moan, _plucked_ from her throat. 

_Mm_ …

Soft and firm and sure…

Until, the other parted, once more, (her brows dipped) shifting against her.

“You wore one of your easier outfits.” Josephine shivered, because it felt too _long_ , since she heard that voice, low and succinct; calloused fingers crept under her hair, traced the back of her neck…before finding the series of clasps concealed beneath a strip of fabric. “Good.” The skirt of her dress was dragged up her thighs; gathered at her hips. “I don’t think I can wait…”

And, before she could _think_ on it, what they were doing; what _she_ was doing — on her desk, legs spread like a common prostitute, before a woman she barely _knew_ — the other's fingers—

Josephine tossed her head back— _cried out_ —arching towards **_sensation_** …

Because, those fingers — those fingers (those _fingers_ ), were so _exact_ , so _deliberate_ , stretching and expanding— _exploring_ —finding _every single spot_ that made her _shake_ and _unravel_ ….

“Mythal, you’re so _wet_ …” she clenched and trembled; closed her eyes to the immediate groan, after, deep and satisfied, as she pressed deeper.

Careless nods. “ _Faster_ …”

_That_ —there was supposed to be _more_ — it was not supposed to _sound_ … But. She wanted the elf so badly, her vision felt hazy.

The Inquisitor kept her pace, curling those fingers, instead. 

Her body _jolted_.

“Ambassador.” A hand trailed up her ribs, to push along her breast. “Where has your diplomacy gone?”

Josephine didn’t respond, _flexed_ against the digits inside her, instead. _Just_. Trying to—

A sudden tug forward. The _loss_ of her fingers.

A thigh _thrust_ between her legs.

The ambassador squeaked, convulsing against the desk, once more.

Brin smirked, pinching a nipple though fabric. “I didn’t lock the door.”

_What_?

“Y-Your…Worship…” her voice shook beyond her control — because she was so _close_ now, hips working against that impassive thigh.

She received a grunt in response, disapproval, evident, even as the elf rocked forward. “My name.” 

Josephine thrust back, (a little bit more; a little bit more; a little bit _more_ ) chewed on her bottom lip. “My lady—I—”

Fingers dug into her hips, holding her _still_ , forcing her to teeter on the edge of the abyss.

She cried out in frustration. Because the woman hadn’t locked the _door_ — and she should be _furious_ … But, her body did not see _that_ as a priority—only wanted _release_ —and that was, the very  _least_ she could give her. For being so… _so_ — “ _You_ …” she nearly ground her teeth, her thighs _trembling_ , “ _Maker_ …you…are so _irresponsible_ …”

“Mm.” Irreverent. “Someone could walk in at any moment.” Blue eyes flashed darkly. “Say it soon.”

And there’s _exasperation_ , and heat—

**_Heat_** …

Filling _every part of her_.

Her hands wrapped around the Inquisitor’s back—dipped low—nails digging into firm globes of flesh, keeping her _right where she was_. “ _Brin_.” And, it sounds more of a groan than anything—

But, it’s _enough_ —that thigh _finally_ moving faster, a hot mouth latched against her throat—

A thousand, white _starbursts_ ….

…After. After her vision returned, and her toes uncurled, all she could manage, was _breathing_. And with every inhalation, she took in the other woman’s scent: earth and wood and smoke, all wrapped in the sensual note of **_rebellion_** …

“You're a screamer.” _Smug_. And, she wanted nothing more than to narrow her eyes at that _smirk_ , but the other’s fingers worked inside her, and all she could do was _pant_ and _recover_ , because, right now—Maker… _now_ —she felt so **_good_** … 

_But_ —

She _wanted_ …

Josephine grasped weakly at the Inquisitor's top, fingers brushing clumsily against the metal of a button.

The elf smirked, returning her hand. “Next time.” A _frown_ — (how  _presumptuous_!) — it a futile effort when the other slowly removed her fingers. “Our spymaster will kill me for this, if she finds out.” But, instead of fear, there was a dark humor. 

_Accomplishment_.

She barely resisted the urge to scoff, shaking her head, instead. “Then, we must make sure she doesn’t.” A hand to her cheek. “It will stay between us.” 

“Our little secret?” Josephine nodded, and there was that dangerous look, again, the woman burying herself into her neck. “ _Ours_ …” _growled_ ; and she felt the most delicious _shiver_ …

“ _Behave_ …” a hand to her chest.

Brin backed away, a crooked, little grin as she looked to her fingers—licked the digits that had been inside her—and, _Andraste, save her_ , from an overconfident Inquisitor.

“Your hair down.” A pause. Her eyes taking in the sight, all over again. “I’ve gotten a taste for it now.” Licked lips. “I’ll need to see it again.”

Her hands clutched the edge of her desk. And more than the words—was the look of pure _heat_ in those blue eyes.

Disconcerting. It was disconcerting how she merely _unraveled_ around her. “You may have the chance.” Until then, “Good day, Your Worship.” 

One last smirk, the Inquisitor making her way to the door, twisting the key—and she _had_ locked the— _Maker_ —as she slipped out with a wink.

 


End file.
